A Book of Golden Deeds

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> A Book of Golden Deeds

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But no gallant resolution could long prevail against the ever-advancing
power of Rome, and at length the Gauls were driven into their fortified
camp at Alesia, now called Alise [footnote: In Burgundy, between Semur
and Dijon.], a city standing on a high hill, with two rivers flowing
round its base, and a plain in front about three miles wide. Everywhere
else it was circled in by high hills, and here Caesar resolved to shut
these brave men in and bring them to bay. He caused his men to begin
that mighty system of earthworks by which the Romans carried on their
attacks, compassing their victim round on every side with a deadly
slowness and sureness, by those broad ditches and terraced ramparts that
everywhere mark where their foot of iron was trod. Eleven miles round
did this huge rampart extend, strengthened by three-and-twenty redoubts,
or places of defense, where a watch was continually kept. Before the
lines were complete, Vercingetorix brought out his cavalry, and gave
battle, at one time with a hope of success; but the enemy were too
strong for him, and his horsemen were driven into the camp. He then
resolved to send home all of these, since they could be of no use in the
camp, and had better escape before the ditch should have shut them in on
every side. He charged them to go to their several tribes and endeavor
to assemble all the fighting men to come to his rescue; for, if he were
not speedily succored, he and 80,000 of the bravest of the Gauls must
fall into the hands of the Romans, since he had only corn for thirty
days, even with the utmost saving.

Having thus exhorted them, he took leave of them, and sent them away at
nine at night, so that they might escape in the dark where the Roman
trench had not yet extended. Then he distributed the cattle among his
men, but retained the corn himself, serving it out with the utmost
caution. The Romans outside fortified their camp with a double ditch,
one of them full of water, behind which was a bank twelve feet high,
with stakes forked like the horns of a stag. The space between the
ditches was filled with pits, and scattered with iron caltrops or hooked
spikes. All this was against the garrison, to prevent them from breaking
out; and outside the camp he made another line of ditches and ramparts
against the Gauls who might be coming to the rescue.

The other tribes were not deaf to the summons of their friends, but
assembled in large numbers, and just as the besieged had exhausted their
provisions, an army was seen on the hills beyond the camp. Their
commander was Vergosillaunus (most probably Fearsaighan, the Man of the
Standard), a near kinsman of Vercingetorix; and all that bravery could
do, they did to break through the defenses of the camp from outside,
while within, Vercingetorix and his 80,000 tried to fill up the ditches,
and force their way out to meet their friends. But Caesar himself
commanded the Romans, who were confident in his fortunes, and raised a
shout of ecstasy wherever they beheld his thin, marked, eagle face and
purple robe, rushing on the enemy with a confidence of victory that did
in fact render them invincible. The Gauls gave way, lost seventy-four of
their standards, and Vergosillaunus himself was taken a prisoner; and as
for the brave garrison within Alesia, they were but like so many flies
struggling in vain within the enormous web that had been woven around
them. Hope was gone, but the chief of the Arverni could yet do one thing
for his countrymen--he could offer up himself in order to obtain better
terms for them.

The next day he convened his companions in arms, and told them that he
had only fought for the freedom of their country, not to secure his
private interest; and that now, since yield they must, he freely offered
himself to become a victim for their safety, whether they should judge
it best for themselves to appease the anger of the conqueror by putting
him to death themselves, or whether they preferred giving him up alive.

It was a piteous necessity to have to sacrifice their noblest and
bravest, who had led them so gallantly during the long war; but they had
little choice, and could only send messengers to the camp to offer to
yield Vercingetorix as the price of their safety. Caesar made it known
that he was willing to accept their submission, and drawing up his
troops in battle array, with the Eagle standards around him, he watched
the whole Gallic army march past him. First, Vercingetorix was placed as
a prisoner in his hands, and then each man lay down sword, javelin, or
bow and arrows, helmet, buckler and breastplate, in one mournful heap,
and proceeded on his way, scarcely thankful that the generosity of their
chieftain had purchased for them subjection rather than death.

Vercingetorix himself had become the property of the great man from whom
alone we know of his deeds; who could perceive his generous spirit and
high qualities as a general, nay, who honored the self-devotion by which
he endeavored to save his countrymen. He remained in captivity--six long
years sped by--while Caesar passed the Rubicon, fought out his struggle
for power at Rome, and subdued Egypt, Pontus, and Northern Africa--and
all the time the brave Gaul remained closely watched and guarded, and
with no hope of seeing the jagged peaks and wild valleys of his own
beautiful Auvergne. For well did he, like every other marked foe of
Rome, know for what he was reserved, and no doubt he yielded himself in
the full expectation of that fate which many a man, as brave as he, had
escaped by self-destruction.

The day came at last. In July, B.C. 45, the victorious Caesar had
leisure to celebrate his victories in four grand triumphs, all in one
month, and that in honor of the conquest of Gaul came the first. The
triumphal gate of Rome was thrown wide open, every house was decked with
hangings of silk and tapestry, the household images of every family,
dressed with fresh flowers, were placed in their porches, those of the
gods stood on the steps of the temples, and in marched the procession,
the magistrates first in their robes of office, and then the trumpeters.
Next came the tokens of the victory--figures of the supposed gods of the
two great rivers, Rhine and Rhone, and even of the captive Ocean, made
in gold, were carried along, with pictures framed in citron wood,
showing the scenes of victory--the wild waste of the Cevennes, the steep
peaks of Auvergne, the mighty camp of Alesia; nay, there too would be
the white cliffs of Dover, and the struggle with the Britons on the
beach. Models in wood and ivory showed the fortifications of Avaricum,
and of many another city; and here too were carried specimens of the
olives and vines, and other curious plants of the newly won land; here
was the breastplate of British pearls that Caesar dedicated to Venus. A
band of flute-players followed, and then came the white oxen that were
to be sacrificed, their horns gilded and flowers hung round them, the
sacrificing priests with wreathed heads marching with them. Specimens of
bears and wolves from the woods and mountains came next in order, and
after them waved for the last time the national ensigns of the many
tribes of Gaul. Once more Vercingetorix and Vergosillaunus saw their own
Arvernian standard, and marched behind it with the noblest of their
clan: once more they wore their native dress and well-tried armor. But
chains were on their hands and feet, and the men who had fought so long
and well for freedom, were the captive gazing-stock of Rome. Long, long
was the line of chained Gauls of every tribe, before the four white
horses appeared, all abreast, drawing the gilded car, in which stood a
slight form in a purple robe, with the bald head and narrow temples
encircled with a wreath of bay, the thin cheeks tinted with vermilion,
the eager aquiline face and narrow lips gravely composed to Roman
dignity, and the quick eye searching out what impression the display was
making on the people. Over his head a slave held a golden crown, but
whispered, 'Remember that thou too art a man.' And in following that old
custom, how little did the victor know that, bay-crowned like himself,
there followed close behind, in one of the chariots of the officers, the
man whose dagger-thrust would, two years later, be answered by his dying
word of reproach! The horsemen of the army followed, and then the
legions, every spear wreathed, every head crowned with bay, so that an
evergreen grove might have seemed marching through the Roman streets,
but for the war songs, and the wild jests, and ribald ballads that
custom allowed the soldiers to shout out, often in pretended mockery of
their own victorious general, the Imperator.

The victor climbed the Capitol steps, and laid his wreath of bay on
Jupiter's knees, the white oxen were sacrificed, and the feast began by
torchlight. Where was the vanquished? He was led to the dark prison
vault in the side of Capitoline hill, and there one sharp sword-thrust
ended the gallant life and long captivity.

It was no special cruelty in Julius Caesar. Every Roman triumph was
stained by the slaughter of the most distinguished captives, after the
degradation of walking in chains had been undergone. He had spirit to
appreciate Vercingetorix, but had not nobleness to spare him from the
ordinary fate. Yet we may doubt which, in true moral greatness, was the
superior in that hour of triumph, the conqueror who trod down all that
he might minister to his own glory, or the conquered, who, when no
resistance had availed, had voluntarily confronted shame and death in
hopes to win pardon and safety for his comrades.

WITHSTANDING THE MONARCH IN HIS WRATH

A.D. 389

When a monarch's power is unchecked by his people, there is only One to
whom he believes himself accountable; and if he have forgotten the
dagger of Damocles, or if he be too high-spirited to regard it, then
that Higher One alone can restrain his actions. And there have been
times when princes have so broken the bounds of right, that no hope
remains of recalling them to their duty save by the voice of the
ministers of God upon Earth. But as these ministers bear no charmed
life, and are subjects themselves of the prince, such rebukes have been
given at the utmost risk of liberty and life.

Thus it was that though Nathan, unharmed, showed David his sin, and
Elijah, the wondrous prophet of Gilead, was protected from Jezebel's
fury, when he denounced her and her husband Ahab for the idolatry of
Baal and the murder of Naboth; yet no Divine hand interposed to shield
Zachariah, the son of Jehoiada, the high priest, when he rebuked the
apostasy of his cousin, Jehoash, King of Judah, and was stoned to death
by the ungrateful king's command in that very temple court where
Jehoiada and his armed Levites had encountered the savage usurping
Athaliah, and won back the kingdom for the child Jehoash. And when 'in
the spirit and power of Elijah', St. John the Baptist denounced the sin
of Herod Antipas in marrying his brother Philip's wife, he bore the
consequences to the utmost, when thrown into prison and then beheaded to
gratify the rage of the vindictive woman.

Since Scripture Saints in the age of miracles were not always shielded
from the wrath of kings, Christian bishops could expect no special
interposition in their favor, when they stood forth to stop the way of
the sovereign's passions, and to proclaim that the cause of mercy,
purity, and truth is the cause of God.

The first of these Christian bishops was Ambrose, the sainted prelate of
Milan. It was indeed a Christian Emperor whom he opposed, no other than
the great Theodosius, but it was a new and unheard-of thing for any
voice to rebuke an Emperor of Rome, and Theodosius had proved himself a
man of violent passions.

The fourth century was a time when races and all sorts of shows were the
fashion, nay, literally the rage; for furious quarrels used to arise
among the spectators who took the part of one or other of the
competitors, and would call themselves after their colours, the Blues or
the Greens. A favorite chariot driver, who had excelled in these races
at Thessalonica, was thrown into prison for some misdemeanor by
Botheric, the Governor of Illyria, and his absence so enraged the
Thessalonican mob, that they rose in tumult, and demanded his
restoration. On being refused, they threw such a hail of stones that the
governor himself and some of his officers were slain.

Theodosius might well be displeased, but his rage passed all bounds. He
was at Milan at the time, and at first Ambrose so worked on his feelings
as to make him promise to temper justice with mercy; but afterwards
fresh accounts of the murder, together with the representations of his
courtier Rufinus, made him resolve not to relent, and he sent off
messengers commanding that there should be a general slaughter of all
the race-going Thessalonicans, since all were equally guilty of
Botheric's death. He took care that his horrible command should be kept
a secret from Ambrose, and the first that the Bishop heard of it was the
tidings that 7,000 persons had been killed in the theatre, in a massacre
lasting three hours!

There was no saving these lives, but Ambrose felt it his duty to make
the Emperor feel his sin, in hopes of saving others. Besides, it was not
consistent with the honor of God to receive at his altar a man reeking
with innocent blood. The Bishop, however, took time to consider; he went
into the country for a few days, and thence wrote a letter to the
Emperor, telling him that thus stained with crime, he could not be
admitted to the Holy Communion, nor received into church. Still the
Emperor does not seem to have believed he could be really withstood by
any subject, and on Ambrose's return, he found the imperial procession,
lictors, guards, and all, escorting the Emperor as usual to the Basilica
or Justice Hall, that had been turned into a church.
Then to the door came the Bishop and stood in the way, forbidding the
entrance, and announcing that there, at least, sacrilege should not be
added to murder.

'Nay,' said the Emperor, 'did not holy King David commit both murder and
adultery, yet was he not received again?'

'If you have sinned like him, repent like him,' answered Ambrose.

Theodosius turned away, troubled. He was great enough not to turn his
anger against the Bishop; he felt that he had sinned, and that the
chastisement was merited, and he went back to his palace weeping, and
there spent eight months, attending to his duties of state, but too
proud to go through the tokens of penitence that the discipline of the
Church had prescribed before a great sinner could be received back into
the congregation of the faithful. Easter was the usual time for
reconciling penitents, and Ambrose was not inclined to show any respect
of persons, or to excuse the Emperor from a penance he would have
imposed on any offender. However, Rufinus could not believe in such
disregard, and thought all would give way to the Emperor's will.
Christmas had come, but for one man at Milan there were no hymns, no
shouts of 'glad tidings!' no midnight festival, no rejoicing that 'to us
a Child is born; to us a Son is given'. The Basilica was thronged with
worshippers and rang with their Amens, resounding like thunder, and
their echoing song--the Te Deum--then their newest hymn of praise. But
the lord of all those multitudes was alone in his palace. He had not
shown good will to man; he had not learnt mercy and peace from the
Prince of Peace; and the door was shut upon him. He was a resolute
Spanish Roman, a well-tried soldier, a man advancing in years, but he
wept, and wept bitterly. Rufinus found him thus weeping. It must have
been strange to the courtier that his master did not send his lictors to
carry the offending bishop to a dungeon, and give all his court favor to
the heretics, like the last empress who had reigned at Milan. Nay, he
might even, like Julian the Apostate, have altogether renounced that
Christian faith which could humble an emperor below the poorest of his
subjects.

But Rufinus contented himself with urging the Emperor not to remain at
home lamenting, but to endeavor again to obtain admission into the
church, assuring him that the Bishop would give way. Theodosius replied
that he did not expect it, but yielded to the persuasions, and Rufinus
hastened on before to warn the Bishop of his coming, and represented how
inexpedient it was to offend him.

'I warn you,' replied Ambrose, 'that I shall oppose his entrance, but if
he chooses to turn his power into tyranny, I shall willingly let him
slay me.'

The Emperor did not try to enter the church, but sought Ambrose in an
adjoining building, where he entreated to be absolved from his sin.

'Beware,' returned the Bishop, 'of trampling on the laws of God.'
'I respect them,' said the Emperor, 'therefore I have not set foot in
the church, but I pray thee to deliver me from these bonds, and not to
close against me the door that the Lord hath opened to all who truly
repent.'

'What repentance have you shown for such a sin?' asked Ambrose.

'Appoint my penance,' said the Emperor, entirely subdued.

And Ambrose caused him at once to sign a decree that thirty days should
always elapse between a sentence of death and its execution. After this,
Theodosius was allowed to come into the church, but only to the corner
he had shunned all these eight months, till the 'dull hard stone within
him' had 'melted', to the spot appointed for the penitents. There,
without his crown, his purple robe, and buskins, worked with golden
eagles, all laid aside, he lay prostrate on the stones, repeating the
verse, 'My soul cleaveth unto the dust; quicken me, O Lord, according to
thy word.' This was the place that penitents always occupied, and there
fasts and other discipline were also appointed. When the due course had
been gone through, probably at the next Easter, Ambrose, in his Master's
name, pronounced the forgiveness of Theodosius, and received him back to
the full privileges of a Christian. When we look at the course of many
another emperor, and see how easily, where the power was irresponsible,
justice became severity, and severity, bloodthirstiness, we see what
Ambrose dared to meet, and from what he spared Theodosius and all the
civilized world under his sway. Who can tell how many innocent lives
have been saved by that thirty days' respite?

Pass over nearly 700 years, and again we find a church door barred
against a monarch. This time it is not under the bright Italian sky, but
under the grey fogs of the Baltic sea. It is not the stately marble
gateway of the Milanese Basilica, but the low-arched, rough stone portal
of the newly built cathedral of Roskilde, in Zealand, where, if a zigzag
surrounds the arch, it is a great effort of genius. The Danish king
Swend, the nephew of the well-known Knut, stands before it; a stern and
powerful man, fierce and passionate, and with many a Danish axe at his
command. Nay, only lately for a few rude jests, he caused some of his
chief jarls to be slain without a trial. Half the country is still
pagan, and though the king himself is baptized, there is no certainty
that, if the Christian faith do not suit his taste, he may not join the
heathen party and return to the worship of Thor and Tyr, where deeds of
blood would be not blameworthy, but a passport to the rude joys of
Valhall. Nevertheless there is a pastoral staff across the doorway,
barring the way of the king, and that staff is held against him by an
Englishman, William, Bishop of Roskilde, the missionary who had
converted a great part of Zealand, but who will not accept Christians
who have not laid aside their sins.

He confronts the king who has never been opposed before. 'Go back,' he
says, 'nor dare approach the alter of God--thou who art not a king but a
murderer.'

Some of the jarls seized their swords and axes, and were about to strike
the bishop away from the threshold, but he, without removing his staff,
bent his head, and bade them strike, saying he was ready to die in the
cause of God. But the king came to a better frame of mind, he called the
jarls away, and returning humbly to his palace, took off his royal
robes, and came again barefoot and in sackcloth to the church door,
where Bishop William met him, took him by the hand, gave him the kiss of
peace, and led him to the penitents' place. After three days he was
absolved, and for the rest of his life, the bishop and the king lived in
the closest friendship, so much so that William always prayed that even
in death he might not be divided from his friend. The prayer was
granted. The two died almost at the same time, and were buried together
in the cathedral at Roskilde, where the one had taught and other learnt
the great lesson of mercy.

THE LAST FIGHT IN THE COLISEUM

A.D. 404

As the Romans grew prouder and more fond of pleasure, no one could hope
to please them who did not give them sports and entertainments. When any
person wished to be elected to any public office, it was a matter of
course that he should compliment his fellow citizens by exhibitions of
the kind they loved, and when the common people were discontented, their
cry was that they wanted panem ac Circenses, 'bread and sports', the
only things they cared for. In most places where there has been a large
Roman colony, remains can be seen of the amphitheatres, where the
citizens were wont to assemble for these diversions. Sometimes these are
stages of circular galleries of seats hewn out of the hillside, where
rows of spectators might sit one above the other, all looking down on a
broad, flat space in the centre, under their feet, where the
representations took place. Sometimes, when the country was flat, or it
was easier to build than to excavate, the amphitheatre was raised above
ground, rising up to a considerable height.

The grandest and most renowned of all these amphitheatres is the
Coliseum at Rome. It was built by Vespasian and his son Titus, the
conquerors of Jerusalem, in a valley in the midst of the seven hills of
Rome. The captive Jews were forced to labour at it; and the materials,
granite outside, and softer travertine stone within, are so solid and so
admirably built, that still at the end of eighteen centuries it has
scarcely even become a ruin, but remains one of the greatest wonders of
Rome.

Five acres of ground were enclosed within the oval of its outer wall,
which outside rises perpendicularly in tiers of arches one above the
other. Within, the galleries of seats projected forwards, each tier
coming out far beyond the one above it, so that between the lowest and
the outer wall there was room for a great space of chambers, passages,
and vaults around the central space, called the arena, from the arena,
or sand, with which it was strewn.

When the Roman Emperors grew very vain and luxurious, they used to have
this sand made ornamental with metallic filings, vermilion, and even
powdered precious stones; but it was thought better taste to use the
scrapings of a soft white stone, which, when thickly strewn, made the
whole arena look as if covered with untrodden snow. Around the border of
this space flowed a stream of fresh water. Then came a straight wall,
rising to a considerable height, and surmounted by a broad platform, on
which stood a throne for the Emperor, curule chairs of ivory and gold
for the chief magistrates and senators, and seats for the vestal
virgins. Next above were galleries for the equestrian order, the great
mass of those who considered themselves as of gentle station, though not
of the highest rank; farther up, and therefore farther back, were the
galleries belonging to the freemen of Rome; and these were again
surmounted by another plain wall with a platform on the top, where were
places for the ladies, who were not (except the vestal virgins) allowed
to look on nearer, because of the unclothed state of some of the
performers in the arena. Between the ladies' boxes, benches were
squeezed in where the lowest people could seat themselves; and some of
these likewise found room in the two uppermost tiers of porticoes, where
sailors, mechanics, and persons in the service of the Coliseum had their
post. Altogether, when full, this huge building held no less than 87,000
spectators. It had no roof; but when there was rain, or if the sun was
too hot, the sailors in the porticoes unfurled awnings that ran along
upon ropes, and formed a covering of silk and gold tissue over the
whole. Purple was the favorite color for this velamen, or veil; because,
when the sun shone through it, it cast such beautiful rosy tints on the
snowy arena and the white purple-edged togas of the Roman citizens.

Long days were spent from morning till evening upon those galleries. The
multitude who poured in early would watch the great dignitaries arrive
and take their seats, greeting them either with shouts of applause or
hootings of dislike, according as they were favorites or otherwise; and
when the Emperor came in to take his place under his canopy, there was
one loud acclamation, 'Joy to thee, master of all, first of all,
happiest of all. Victory to thee for ever!'

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